


It’s Easy When You Know How

by Kaz_Langston



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Ice Skating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:02:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21632635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz_Langston/pseuds/Kaz_Langston
Summary: Broadchurch has a temporary ice rink for Christmas. Hardy's awful at it, but Ellie is happy to help him keep his feet.
Relationships: Alec Hardy & Daisy Hardy, Alec Hardy/Ellie Miller
Comments: 27
Kudos: 152





	It’s Easy When You Know How

It feels like half the bloody town's at the ice rink, on the stray patch of green where Broadchurch permits funfairs and jumble sales, though there's a lot of faces he doesn't recognize and it's the only thing to do on a Saturday night for 40 miles, so there's probably people from three towns over.

At least it's busy enough that no one will spot him amongst the crowds, and so far he's hardly seen anyone he knows, although the Latimers are around somewhere - Chloe had waved at Daisy earlier on - and Ollie Stevens. If the journalist so much as hints at taking photos he'll be under arrest so fast his head will spin.

Fortunately no one from the station seems to be around, though no doubt Miller will be there soon enough, attracted by the bright lights and crowds and _fun_. He fervently hopes to be long gone by then.

Wobbling on the blades across the thick matting towards the ice, Hardy feels decidedly unstable. Surely it'll be better once he's on solid, if icy, ground.

Daisy throws herself through the entrance with glee, leaving him behind for a moment as she does a quick triumphant lap, graceful and beautiful. Hardy tries not to smile too widely at the sight of her - she hates it when he's soppy - but his heart soars to see her so joyful.

He beckons her over as she sails past. "C'mere, Daiz." When she gets close enough that he can drag her off the ice, he pulls her into a hug, burying his face in her pink bobble hat as he wraps his long arms around her, leaning too heavily as he uses her for balance.

"Daaaad," she complains but she gives him a second before fending him off, laughing. "You can't get out of it that easily!"

He checks his coat pocket once more and of course the pills are there, not that he needs them often these days, but it's a necessary reassurance before setting a tentative foot out onto the rink.

The instant his skate touches the ice he realises this is a horrible, awful, terrible idea. He's got one leather gloved hand on the entranceway, but it's not enough, so he takes a double handed grip, even though it's only cheap plastic and the wall sways under his hands. Somehow he manages to get both feet on the ice, twisting himself around until he's got his back against the wall and can see Daisy's grinning face.

_Christ_ , he thinks. The arrhythmia may not have killed him but turns out all it's going to take instead is ten quids worth of ice skates and a catastrophic head injury.

Daisy shouts at him, "Come on, Dad!", skating backwards - backwards! - so she can watch him.

He shoves off from the side, has one almost ecstatic moment of _yes! This is it!_ before his feet go out from under him, his arse hits the ground, and all the air leaves his lungs in a sad _oof_.

Daisy circles back, laughing at him, eyes bright and cheeks already pink from the cold.

"I dunno why I agreed to this," he gripes, holding out one gloved hand. She grabs his forearm in a firm grip and he tried to stand, only succeeding in skittering his feet across the ice and scooting his arse along inelegantly. Daisy lets go, needing both hands to brace on her knees as she doubles over in laughter.

"What'm I doing wrong?" He can feel the tragic expression crumpling his face, but there's nothing he can do about it, feeling far too sorry for himself.

"Here, roll over - put your foot - yeah - no like that - and push up slowly." Daisy is delighted when he somehow makes it back to his feet, and offers an arm, which he seizes on gratefully.

They shuffle slowly back to the perimeter, Hardy clenching every muscle in his body in an attempt to stay upright. Daisy deposits him on the wall and he transfers his death grip to that instead. "Just go round the edge for a bit, it'll get easier."

"Wait - Daisy -" but she's gone, youthful limbs elegant on the ice.

He swears under his breath, and continues his impression of a ninety year old man out for a walk, shuffling his feet miniscule distances across the treacherous surface.

He's made it almost a full lap before the chime of a familiar voice catches his attention.

Of course she can do it, he thinks irritably as Ellie Miller sails past in her bright coat, not giving him a second look. She's not spotted him yet, too caught up in chatting away to a wrapped up small form he assumes is Fred, so he pulls his wool hat lower and hopes she's not paying attention.

Two more laps and he's finally starting to get the hang of it, getting enough confidence to start letting go, though his hand hovers barely a centimetre above the plastic barrier.

Daisy zooms past, chatting to a friend, but peels off to return to his side.

"How's it going? You could try letting go, you know."

He bares his teeth at her in a rictus of a grin, trying to resist checking his watch to see if their allotted half hour is up yet. He has a horrible feeling that only a handful of minutes has passed, and he doesn't actually want to know how much more of this torture is left. "I tried that. I didn't like it."

She gives him the puppy dog eyes, which is what got him into this situation in the first place, and he feels himself wavering. "I'll hold your hand?" She skates a little closer and holds out a gloved hand.

Reluctantly, he peels away from the wall and shuffles towards her. Eyes dancing, she slides backwards, moving an inch away from his reaching fingertips. "Now that's not fair."

"Just a little bit further, come on!" He's a metre away from the wall, finally getting a bit of speed and Daisy's face is proud and-

Deja vu all over again. He's on his arse on the ice, probably got whiplash, definitely got bruises, and there's a familiar cackle.

"You alright down there sir?"

That's it, his humiliation is complete.

He tips his head back, learning on his hands to see Ellie Miller huffing out clouds of steam, orange coat aglow under the artificial lighting, dark curls a barely contained riot under a dark woollen hat.

"You know what you're doing wrong, don't you?" She grins down at him.

Please God let it be something easy. "No?"

"You're all leg. No coordination."

He scowls at her, but it slides off her cheerful exterior like water off a duck's back.

Slim arms are under his armpits, and to his embarrassment she practically drags him to his feet. She's stronger than she looks.

"Daisy's a rubbish teacher," he grumbles, shooting her a dark look. His daughter looks nonplussed, as Miller lets him go and he tries desperately to avoid falling while simultaneously trying not to cling pathetically to his partner.

"Can't teach a rubbish student," she taunts back, which isn't really fair as she just abandoned him to his own devices, but he doesn't want to argue.

"Come on. I'll help you. Fred's found a little gang of his mates anyway."

Daisy leaves them to it, Hardy's knees trembling coltishly as he stands alone on the ice. Miller looks at him as though he's about to keel over, and maybe he is.

"Can I hold your hand or will you try and chew it off?" She fixes him with a frank look. He doesn't bother answering, just holds out a plaintive hand.

She slips in beside him and takes his large hand in hers, right hand to right hand in something that could never resemble a handshake, and though they're both wearing gloves he's suddenly very, very aware of the press of her palm, the tips of his long fingers tracing the ridges of her knuckles.

Hardy swallows, then realises he's stared too long at the tangle of their fingers and looks up at her. She gives him a soft smile, dark eyes warm. "It's easy. I'll show you."

Miller tucks her free arm around his waist and he nearly falls again as he tries to simultaneously lean into it and squirm away. She's firm, though, steady and steadying, and he looks down at her determined face with something small and soft uncurling in his chest.

She guides him forward, one step at a time, holding him up as small children whizz past too close and make him jump and wobble. He's sure one of them must be Fred, but they all look identical to him.

Eventually he gets the hang of it, settling into easy smooth steps that suit his long legs more than his previous shuffling gait, and Miller begins to ease back.

The sting of abandonment is eased by his triumph at finding his feet, and finally they're down to a single point of contact, his fingers gently resting on her upturned palm. Even that slowly dwindles down to nothing as she dips her hand away, and he's alone, coasting across the ice on legs that tremble but still hold him upright.

He takes a few long strides, testing his newfound skill, and Miller whoops and cheers behind him. He's preoccupied with his success and doesn't notice Daisy, grinning, armed with her phone.

When he finally reaches the side of the rink, Hardy collapses breathlessly against it, grinning like a madman. He rests there for a second before hauling off his hat, ruffling the sweaty hair beneath and turning to the two women behind him as the organiser calls time up. Composing himself, though his cheeks still tug in a smile, he asks, "Have I earned my drink then?"

"What do you think, Daisy?" Ellie turns to the teenager, who looks skeptical.

"I dunno..." She grins at the outraged expression on Hardy's face.

He scowls at one delighted face then the other. "I dunno if I like you two ganging up on me. I'm having a drink whether you think I've earned it or not!" It's hard to stalk away on ice and instead he just staggers to the exit, Daisy following and Miller bringing up the rear, somehow plucking Fred out of a herd of children along the way.

They collapse onto benches, Fred chattering away enthusiastically. Tugging off his skates Hardy lets out a heartfelt groan, suddenly aware of blisters and aching muscles and frozen toes. "Daisy," he whimpers pathetically, "Daisy, help an old man out." He nudges the skates towards her but she wrinkles her nose. "You can stay out till eleven. Twelve!"

"Twelve, _and_ I get a glass of wine."

She's sixteen, so it's legal enough as long as they have food alongside, and there's no harm in it, but he doesn't appreciate her shrewd bargaining. Still, the thought of getting up having just sat down is too much, and he waves a capitulatory hand.

Miller is somehow able to get up and swap her skates for her own sensible trainers, and Fred's for his bright blue ones, sitting down smugly beside him as Daisy hands over his shoes with a grin. "Want me to put them on for you?"

Hardy swipes them from her grip. "Oi, careful, I've not bought you that drink yet." He's just grateful he can bend enough to do them up with half-numb fingers.

She mimes zipping her mouth shut, and sits down to tug on her own fashionable boots, ones that had appeared after her last trip to see her mother.

Once they're dressed, Miller slowed down by guiding Fred step by step through the process of tying his laces - still very much a work in progress - they head out to the little pop up tent that's been wafting the tempting scent of mulled wine through the air since they arrived. It's roasting inside, and they're quick to strip off coats and scarves and gloves. Hardy wriggles his toes, trying to get a bit of warmth back into them.

"Ooh, chips!" Miller grins delightedly at the little chalkboard sign. "Fred, you want chips?"

"Chips!"

"Chips _please_ ," she corrects, and he dutifully repeats it.

Hardy looks at her in disbelief. "Chips! He's going to be as bad as you. Daiz, you want anything?"

"Chips!" she chirps, and Miller snorts out a laugh.

Grumbling halfheartedly he digs in his pocket for his wallet and hands Daisy a twenty. "Four chips, no salt on mine. I'll get you mulled wine - Miller?"

"Oh, you don't have to, I'll get ours!" He doesn't respond, just gives her a steady look and hands over his coat. "Oh go on then - mulled wine as well please. And a hot chocolate for Fred?"

Hardy gives her a conspiratorial lopsided grin. "I'll ask for extra whipped cream."

Somehow Miller finds seats at a table, diving in just as someone else moves on, and dumps their outerwear in a heap. Hardy returns slightly frazzled after the queue, holding three steaming glasses of mulled wine and a cup of hot chocolate, extra cream and a bit of cold milk to cool it down.

The bench is padded, but not quite enough, and Hardy groans again as he sits down. "I won't be able to walk tomorrow."

"Good thing tomorrow's Sunday then," Miller offers brightly.

"Hmm." He could happily rest his head on his arms and drift off to sleep, but it wouldn't be very becoming of a senior officer, so he tries to resist the urge, sipping at the wine instead. It's delicious, apple and cinnamon and spices and warmth seeping through his fingertips.

Daisy drops four baskets of chips in front of them triumphantly and, with rather more disdain, a fork and something that might be a Greek salad next to Hardy's portion.

"Ah, that's great, thanks darlin'."

Fred makes a mess with the ketchup before diving in, Miller neater but no less enthusiastic. Hardy spears at the olives and feta with every sign of enjoyment, occasionally deigning to pick at the chips.

The women are nearly finished when Daisy wipes her fingers off on a napkin to tug out her phone, glancing at it and then looking around the tent, clearly searching for someone. "Back in a sec." She's gone before Hardy has a chance to say anything, crossing the room to the entranceway where a fresh wave of people announces the end of another session. He cranes his neck, trying to watch, but with the crowd all he can see is his daughter's smiling profile, cheeks suddenly flushed pink again. She glances back to the table, gesturing, and he tries not to look like he was watching. From the eye rolling he gets, he wasn't particularly successful.

She heads back to them, three or four girls following at a distance. "Dad - can I go hang out with my friends?"

He's briefly hurt, but tries not to show it. "Back by midnight?"

That earns him a beaming smile, and is definitely worth it. She picks up her wineglass and drains the last third, despite his protests, and heads away clutching her coat. The group isn't quite out of sight when she reaches for the shorter girl next to her, twining their hands together.

Hardy looks away and scowls into his glass. "I knew she was being sneaky with her phone! Didn't bother telling me she had a girlfriend."

"Oh let her be. Least she won't get pregnant."

He blanches and takes a generous mouthful of rapidly cooling wine. Miller, unperturbed, starts on his portion of chips.

They sit there for a long while, heads bent conspiratorially close as they talk shop with most of the gory details left out, until the milky dregs of Fred's hot chocolate have long gone cold and Miller's second glass of wine is empty of everything but the decorative orange slice. Eventually a flood of new arrivals announces the end of another half hour, happy faces looking hopefully for tables, and Hardy gathers his gloves. "Best get on."

Miller smiles at him, then redirects it down at her son. "It's past Fred's bedtime, isn't it?" The boy doesn't answer her, too focussed on the Youtube videos playing on the phone in his hands. "Knew it was a mistake giving him that." She tugs his woollen hat on, before confiscating the phone much to Fred's disgust.

They stumble through the door to the outside world, leaving mulled wine and raucous laughter behind in favour of the chill night air, still and clear with the faint ever-present tang of salt. The little blue shack is still there by the harbour, a stone's throw away, though there's no light at the window, and Hardy catches himself before he does something as foolishly sentimental as wave at it.

The ache in his muscles is almost reassuring, offering a comfortable mindfulness, though he knows there'll be hell to pay tomorrow.

Miller's fussing with Fred, checking his scarf and zipping up his coat against the subzero temperatures. Hardy hovers, suddenly uncertain, until she turns to him. There's something indefinable in her eyes, a softness, and abruptly and without much input from his brain he says, "I'll walk you home. Think my legs have seized up, it'll do me good."

Her eyes crinkle up and he turns away, suddenly embarrassed and not wanting to look too closely at why.

Fred runs ahead, looking for frozen puddles that haven't already been crunched, and the two of them stroll slowly behind.

The alcohol is warm in his blood, one glass more than enough these days - he's still not recovered from the teetotal months as his diagnosis worsened - but it's not enough to make him stumble, just enough to soften the edges of everything, make him look up at the stars and dream a little.

Their arms brush once and then a second time, but he's too pleasantly worn out and tipsy to move away. After a minute she tucks her hand firmly through the crook of his elbow, not breaking stride, and they continue together through the streets as a content little four legged creature, staggering a little as they adapt to his long legs outpacing hers.

The walk is too short, though their silence should have dragged it out longer. It's like that between them these days, no need for conversation to smooth the strange misshapen jigsaw pieces of his jagged edges and her easy softness.

At the door, Miller detaches herself from Hardy's arm, rummaging in her pocket for the keys. She lets Fred inside first - "Go do your teeth!" - but pulls the door shut behind him, leaving it on the latch.

Hardy's awkward and hovering again, not sure why she's not already inside in the warmth. The thought that she might invite him in strikes sudden panic into his heart and he's abruptly wary, watching her with wide eyes in the dimly lit porch.

"G'night, Miller," he offers, tucking stray nervous hands in the pockets of his coat, shoulders hunched.

She comes closer and he sways back but doesn't move, feet rooted to the spot. A hand rests on his bicep for balance as she comes up on tiptoes and presses a gentle kiss to his cheek. It's a tiny spot of warmth on his chill skin, but it floods him with heat down to his toes. "Night, sir."

He's frozen, eyes wide as she drops down onto flat feet and turns away to head inside. The bright hall light frames her as she looks back, one hand still on the doorframe, and he somehow manages to choke out, "Goodnight, Miller."

The last thing he sees is her dancing eyes and wide Cheshire cat smile as she shuts the door, and as he runs the last few minutes through his head - not for the last time - he curses at his fumbling stupidity.

"Goodnight, Miller, see you tomorrow Miller, goodnight Miller," he mimics quietly to himself, kicking at the path as he walks away, eyes fixed on the ground. "For fucks sake."

There's a telltale sound behind him, the click and clunk of the door. He spins to see Miller, hair hat-flattened and cheeks still pink from the cold, looking out at him. "Want to come in for a drink, sir?"

What does that even mean? Hardy stares blankly at her, a deer in headlights. 

"Just a glass of wine. Maybe a bit of shit tv."

He wavers.

"I'll have you home by midnight, promise. Tom's back soon anyway."

Her smile is suddenly uncertain, and he can't bear that.

"Aye." He nods sharply, eyes flickering away. "Just the one." The relief in the lines of her body is palpable, and he's almost ashamed that he ever thought of refusing her.

She steps back, opening the door wide enough to let him through, and he walks into the warmth.


End file.
